


like the green fig tree

by littlebreadrolls



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Kidnapping, M/M, No Underage Relationship, Ratings and Warnings Subject to Change, since i am apparently incapable of writing these two without slashing them, will be a relationship one day
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-25 13:30:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18575443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlebreadrolls/pseuds/littlebreadrolls
Summary: "At the time, Hannibal knew only that Will Graham was a man with brown eyes and curly brown hair. A man who liked fishing and fixing boat motors. A man who might be living somewhere in Louisiana – but then again, a man who might not be. In the visions which had begun creeping upon Hannibal in the night – visions as pestering and unwelcome as bedbugs – Hannibal saw only glimpses. He didn't know if the glimpses were of other worlds or other times, or even of metaphorical events and spaces that never did and never would exist.Perhaps they were not visions at all. Perhaps they were delusions, and Hannibal was going mad. Who could say for certain?"--Young Hannibal suddenly begins seeing visions. He ends up kidnapping a twelve-year old Will.





	like the green fig tree

**Author's Note:**

> Man, I don't know why this idea popped into my head. So, I've read a few time travel fics in which Will or Hannibal wake up in their younger bodies, but in this fic, Hannibal is still his young 20-something-year-old self. Will is just a poor kid who has no idea wtf is going on.
> 
> (feel free to give me suggestions for how this fic should go because I have only very vague ideas, lol)

–

When Will comes home from school on Friday, he finds a stranger cooking in the kitchen. This is unusual for many reasons, not the least of which is the fact no one usually comes to the house other than Will’s father and Will himself. And his father only rarely at that. His father doesn't have many friends. Neither does Will.

The stranger is a clean-shaven, clean-cut young man, dressed more uppity than most people in this town dress, and the first thought to strike Will is that he might be some sort of missionary or door-to-door salesman. But that's a stupid idea, Will realizes immediately. Neither missionaries nor door-to-door salesmen break into people's houses.

"Hello," says the stranger.

"Hi," says Will, who pauses in the doorway.

The stranger has an accent. Not one of the famous accents you hear in movies and TV shows – not French or British or anything like that. An accent too unusual for Will to place. The stranger's wearing a raggedy old apron that he must've dug out of a drawer somewhere; it clashes absurdly with his fine clothes. His hands are wet. He's slicing leeks with an efficiency that is almost inhuman.

"Are you Will Graham?" he asks pleasantly.

Will doesn't answer.

"I'm making an herb and leek frittata. It should be done in only thirty minutes. Would you like something to drink in the meantime? I made fresh orange juice. In case you're wondering how I came in, your father told me that the back door would be unlocked. And so it was."

The back door is always unlocked because the lock rusted off of it. Will's dad has been talking about fixing it up since they first moved in, and Will knows, from long experience, that the lock will probably be just as broken when they pack up and move again.

"My dad couldn't have told you that.”

"Couldn't he have?” says the stranger.

"No," says Will. The thought of this well-pressed, sharp-boned man holding a long conversation with his father is too bizarre a thought to hold for long. "I don't think you'd like my dad, and he wouldn't like you. You'd – you'd run away from each other the first chance you get."

The rapid rhythm of the stranger’s chopping falters, just for a moment, but it sets Will a little more at ease. The man is human after all. Finishing up with one leek and starting on another, the man says, "You seem convinced."

"I know my dad."

"But you don't know me."

"Then tell me who you are." A moment too late, Will thinks to add, grudgingly, " _Sir_."

The stranger smiles. Unlike the rest of him, his smile is awkward; his smile is ill-suited to his face. (We must forgive him this. At this point in his life, the man is a relatively young fellow still. He hasn’t yet perfected, as he will in later years, the art of looking like a human on the outside.) In his strange, sibilant voice, the man says, "My name is Hannibal."

The frittata finishes cooking. Hannibal plates two servings. The food looks like it came out of a magazine cover, and the frittata pieces sit so perfectly on the chipped plates that even the chips look intentional, rustic.

Will eats his portion. He's hungry, and he doesn't usually get food like this. He lives off of bags of chips and loaves of stale bread. He devours his slice of frittata and, without asking, Hannibal offers him another slice. Will eats this too, and a third, and helps himself to two glasses of orange juice, and then he's finally full – fuller than he can remember being in quite some time. The fullness makes him sleepy, which is a dangerous thing to be when one has a stranger in one's home, especially when the stranger is a stranger like Hannibal.

Hannibal watched him the whole time he ate, and that was rather unnerving. Will isn't used to being the center of someone's attention. He prefers to slink about the outskirts of life. Most of the time, even his father seems to forget that he's there.

"Your earlier assumption was incorrect,” says Hannibal suddenly. “I did speak with your father and he told me many things. I met him yesterday evening. He was in a bar in Mandeville. Did you know that?"

Will didn't know that. Will almost never knows where his father goes. His father disappears for days or, sometimes, weeks, giving no warning and no forwarding address, leaving Will to take care of himself as best he can. Will buys himself food using coins he scrounges up, or money he steals from his dad's wallet. There were a few times when the power went off. Will lived and slept in the dark until his father returned to pay the bills.

"He was drinking very much. Gambling a little," says Hannibal. "He was very drunk by the time I struck up a conversation with him; I don't think he would be so revealing otherwise. He told me that his name was William, but that I ought to call him Bill. He told me that he fixed motors – car motors or boat motors or any kind of motor. He wasn't picky. He told me that he had a twelve-year-old son who was hardworking and responsible. A fine boy. When the evening wore on and he became very, very drunk indeed, he told me that he knew that he was not a good father, and that he wished that his son had someone better to depend on."

Will stares down at his empty plate. He regrets that he bolted down his meal so quickly; now he has nothing to focus on other than Hannibal's voice. And he's still sleepy.

"I asked him where he lived," continues Hannibal, "and he told me that he lived all over the place, but that his most recent house was in Chesterville – a tiny little place with a broken window and back door that doesn't lock. The house was easy enough to find. It seems like everyone here in Chesterville knows where the newcomer lives. They don't get many newcomers, I suppose. And a newcomer who's a drunkard besides – that carries a special sort of notoriety."

Will’s been feeling more and more tired the whole while Hannibal spoke. The chipped plate begins spinning in front of him. Hannibal's face is spinning in front of him. Will's hands are too big to belong to him, and his head is too small.

"I feel – " says Will helplessly. But he doesn't know how to describe what he feels.

–

Now they're suddenly sitting in a car. The car has smooth leather seats. The world is spinning past them and behind them and ahead of them and Hannibal is talking. Hannibal never seems to stop talking. _Likes the sound of his voice a little too much,_ Will's dad would have said. And why not? Hannibal has a nice voice, a voice that’s easy to like.

Hannibal is saying, "I saw you in a vision. A different you. An older you." They shoot beneath a tunnel and the roar of the road briefly swallows Hannibal's voice. His lips move but make no sound. And then they're into the sunlight and Will can hear again and Hannibal is asking, as he glances over at him sidelong, "– ever see me?"

–

In fact, Hannibal had lied. He _didn't_ speak to Will's father yesterday evening. It was a private detective who did that (Hannibal knew better than to let any witnesses see his own face).  

Hannibal had first hired the private detective some months ago.

"I am looking for a man named Will Graham," Hannibal had said.

At the time, Hannibal knew only that this Will Graham was a man with brown eyes and curly brown hair. A man who liked fishing and fixing boat motors. A man who might be living somewhere in Louisiana – but then again, a man who might not be. In the visions which had begun creeping upon Hannibal in the night – visions as pestering and unwelcome as bedbugs – Hannibal saw only glimpses. He didn't know if the glimpses were of other worlds or other times, or even of metaphorical events and spaces that never did and never would exist.

It wasn't much to go on, all things considered, and yet the private detective did manage to eventually rustle up a likely candidate: a man who lived in Louisiana, and who was said to be a mechanic. The detective tracked Will Graham down to a bar in Mandeville. He plied him with alcohol, plied him with talk, and took a clandestine photo. Only when Hannibal looked at the photo later did he realize that they had discovered the wrong edition of the right book. This William David Graham had the same brown curly hair, the same sharp jaw, the same dark-rubbed eyes – but he was not the man Hannibal saw in his visions.

This was the father. Hannibal was looking for the son.

Hannibal paid the detective handsomely, trailed him to a private place, and then killed him. He made the death look like an accident. He was twenty-four years old; he’d learned, by now, how to do things like that. Then he left for the town where William David Graham's son lived – the son who shared the same name as the father.

–

“ – likely be very thirsty.”

Will is aware that he’s  sitting at a table. Will is aware that the sun is shining on his face and that the air is combing gently through his hair like warm fingers. Will is aware that he’s awake now, _really_ awake.

Hannibal pushes a cup of coffee over to him.

“I don’t like coffee,” Will says reflexively. He’s surprised when his voice doesn’t come out slurred. But he picks up the cup and sips and then he finds that he is desperately thirsty and he drinks until the cup is empty. When he finishes, he wipes his mouth on his sleeve and says, “Did I fall asleep?"

"Yes."

"Did you drug me?”

“Yes.”

Will is beginning to be afraid now.

“You were awake the whole time, simply in an altered state of mind. You probably remember some things. What do you remember, Will?” Hannibal leans across the table, looking intently at him. His eyes are a strange shade of light brown. His gaze could flay a man’s skin off.

“I – I remember being in an airport,” Will says. “And I remember a big house.” He looks around and finds that he’s sitting on the balcony of a big house. "This is the house?"

Hannibal says, "This is my house. One of my houses."

 

And so begins a new phase in Will's life.


End file.
